Time is simultaneous; so say some mystics. There is a sucker born every minute, says old P.T. But it feels like there is no time left for either/or. We’ve got ourselves by the throat. Our long knives are drawn and poised. We’ve been born every minute in sync with our death. How do we unclench ourselves from this dream? Caught exposing ourselves in public places, We stand accused on the coasts of time. The sun rises and sets according to how we face, And the two oceans rumple the sands at our feet with recurrent hissing____________

Free, condemned on shores of balanced flux In the silence of a thought— Our hearts also, stilled between beats, Minds go white—-